


Stay

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming In Pants, First Kiss, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Post TAB, Suicidal Ideation Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:19:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why?  Why did you do it?  Hmm…?”  He takes a deep breath, waits, lets it out again.  “Look at me.”  There’s no denying him when he takes this tone.  “Why did you kill him?  Hmm…?  For her?  After…”  A muscle twitches in the corner of John’s eye, and he clamps his jaw down tightly, swallows and sniffs a little before continuing.  “For her?  After everything she’s done?”</p><p>“For you.”  Before he can even stop himself.  Just like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

“I know.”

Sherlock’s head swims.  The room tilts a little.  He digs his nails into his palm, and waits for it to stop.  Is this John?  Is this their flat—his flat?  Here, or the other place?  He sniffs.  Flops down in his black, leather chair, hugs his knees to his chest, and rests his forehead wearily atop them.  “You know _what_?”

“Nope.”  John sniffs.  “Look at me.”

Sherlock tilts his chin, rests it on his knees.  This isn’t the other one.  This is John.  _His_ John.  Here, now, in this place. 

A siren echoes down the street.  A bus roars past.  Someone next door flushes the toilet, and the pipes whoosh and knock.  The fluorescent light in the kitchen buzzes.

John’s face is soft and angry all at once—jaw tight, eyes full.  He nods his head, a tight little jerk in Sherlock’s direction.  “This.  The list.  All those things you took.  I know, Sherlock.  I know why.”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh.  It comes out sounding like a mockery.  He doesn’t mean it to be that, but it hangs between them, in the pregnant almost-quiet of the late January afternoon, and there is nothing to do now, but follow this path to it’s inevitable conclusion.  He’s tired.  Too tired to do this now.  “Oh, really?  Do enlighten me then…”

John bites at his top lip, sucks at it a little, trying to keep back all the angry words battling at the back of his throat, no doubt.  “You wanted to die.  Why?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

John shakes his head.  “Nope.  You don’t get to do this, this time.  I’m done with games.  There was enough to kill you, and there were things on that list I know you didn’t take.  You were interrupted.  So my question stands, Sherlock.  Why?”

Sherlock only shrugs.

“Tell me,” John repeats.  He’s not backing down.  His shoulders are squared, hands balled at his sides, feet slightly apart.

Sherlock swallows tightly, lets his eyes drop down to the nobs of his boney knees straining against his trousers.  His head swims.  It feels like someone has sucked all the oxygen out of the small space between them.  “Six months…  Why prolong the inevitable?  I was never cut out for intelligence work.”   

Mrs. Hudson’s television set clicks on downstairs, the volume louder than usual.  It echoes hollowly in the still flat.  A woman’s laughter echoes up from the street below.

“Then…”  John finally speaks, his voice dry, rough.  “Why?  Why did you do it?  Hmm…?”  He takes a deep breath, waits, lets it out again.  “Look at me.”  There’s no denying him when he takes this tone.  “Why did you kill him?  Hmm…?  For her?  After…”  A muscle twitches in the corner of John’s eye, and he clamps his jaw down tightly, swallows and sniffs a little before continuing.  “For her?  After everything she’s done?”

“For you.”  Before he can even stop himself.  Just like that.

John’s eyebrows do something Sherlock can’t interpret.  His mouth becomes a straight line, even as his eyes telegraph pain that melts away into something soft, and sad.  Something that almost looks like surrender.  “I know.”  Voice so gentle.  “I told you.  I know.”

_Oh?  Oh…_

“Do you?”  It comes out like a challenge, small and petulant, a child issuing a dare.

And then John is there, standing in front of him, reaching down, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock’s eyelids fall shut, his shoulders drooping with relief, a soft sigh escaping his lips before he can stop himself. 

“For how long?”

Sherlock can only shake his head in response, eyes still closed.

“How long?”  Whispered.  So soft.  Almost reverent.

“I don’t know.  Since this morning?  Since your wedding, or those two years away, or the pool?  Maybe—maybe since the start.”

John’s fingers curl into a loose fist in Sherlock’s curls.  He tugs, just a little, tilting Sherlock’s head back, turning his face upward, until he’s gazing up at John’s face.  “The pool.”

“What?”

“That’s when I knew.  That’s when I realised it was a losing battle, and then—“  John’s fingers let go, his hand falls away, but the careful softness in his eyes remains.  “After the Adler case.  That’s when I let myself lose.”  Sherlock’s lips part.  He stops breathing.  John’s eyes are full.  “And then you were gone.”  The tiny dams glimmering against dusk-blue irises break, tears hanging precariously from the bottoms of long lashes.

“Sorry,” Sherlock breathes, all he can think of to say.

“Don’t.  I don’t want to hear it anymore.  It’s done.  It’s finished.  It can’t be undone.  No more sorry’s after the fact.  No more.  Just don’t.”

“I…”

“You need to shut up.”

Sherlock frowns.  Confused by the dichotomy between the harshness, the insistence of John’s words, and the quiet sorrow of his tone.

“You need to tell me one thing, and then you need to shut up,” John clarifies.  He’s trembling now.  It’s subtle, but it’s John, and of course Sherlock notices.

“What thing?”

“Tell me I can kiss you.”

Sherlock’s lips part, his eyes widen.  He knows he must look a dumbfounded fool, but John’s trembling is growing more pronounced now, and his eyes are filling again as he clenches, and unclenches his left hand over, and over.  Enough is enough.

John’s cheeks are damp, and his face hot when Sherlock stands, and cradles it gently in his hands.  So many things battle behind John’s eyes, but for all the fear, there is also one thing, one undeniable thing, Sherlock can’t possibly ignore.  Hope. 

“Kiss me.”  John reels a little, as though the words have hit him with physical force, but he stays.  He shakes, and shakes, but he stays.  Sherlock traces a thumb over one cheek, smearing the wetness of fresh tears.  “Kiss me,” he says again.

Sherlock tilts down as John surges upward, a small sound breaking from his throat, a whimper of relief, as he rocks up on his toes, his mouth smashing into Sherlock’s with a jolt of pain, and a surge of pleasure so intense Sherlock feels dizzy all over again. 

It’s messy, and desperate, and far too wet, but there are tears, and sighs, and moans.  There are hands everywhere, and there is John trembling, shaking apart in his arms.  John surging toward him like an incoming tide, until the backs of Sherlock’s thighs meet the edge of the desk, and he has to reach out one hand to steady himself.  Using the extra leverage, he bends his knee just a little, bringing his thigh up to meet the straining, rock-hard miracle of John’s cock. 

John doesn’t need any more invitation that this.  He grinds against Sherlock’s thigh hard, frantic, once, twice, three times; makes a sound that is almost feral, half agonising pain, half over whelming pleasure, as his fingers claw and cling to the fabric on the back of Sherlock’s shirt so fiercely Sherlock fears it may leave tears.  There is so much at once, the way John’s scent shifts just a little, the way his lips mouth unspoken words agains the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck, while his breath puffs out in hot sobs, and a dampness spreads over the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt from John’s tears, and into the fabric on the leg of Sherlock’s trousers where John has…  Oh.

John goes limp in his arms, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him, bears him up, bears the full weight of this and waits.  It’s not a surprise this—not really.  Perhaps just that it’s happened now, while Sherlock is still trying to gather his wits about him, and purge the last remnants of the drugs surging through his system.  He would have liked to have had a clearer head.  He would have liked to have been able to catalogue more.  He fears he’s missed a million beautiful details, and what if…  The reality of their situation slams into him like a lorry, knocking the air from his lungs.  What if this opportunity never comes again?

But then John hasn’t left.  His face is buried in Sherlock’s neck, and his arms are wrapped around his waist,  loosely, but firm enough that it feels like he means it. 

Mrs. Hudson’s television set continues to blare downstairs.  Much louder now.  Sherlock understands.  She knew, or hoped at least.  She was giving them their privacy.

Sherlock isn’t sure what to do now.  He has no scripts for this.  It’s instinct then.  This is John, after all, and John has always felt a little like a piece of him—from that very first case.  He slides a hand soothingly down John’s back, palm flat, warm, open, and leans down a little to press his lips against the top of his head.  “Are you alright?”

John doesn’t say anything, but he nods against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock smiles a little.  “Are you hiding from me?”

He feels the soft huff of John’s laugh against his neck, feels his face spread into a smile to match the one on Sherlock’s own.  “Yeah.”

“But you’re alright?”

John’s fingers fidget with the fabric at the back of Sherlock’s shirt.  “This wasn’t—I’d imagined it so many times, and—it never happened like this…”

Sherlock continues to rub John’s back, firm, but gentle.  John isn’t objecting, and it seems to be grounding him.  “You imagined it?!”  Sherlock can hear the incredulous joy in his own voice, and that must be enough to remind John of his own courage, because he finally pulls back a little, brings his hands forward to rest lightly on Sherlock’s hips, as he looks up at him.

“I did, yeah.  A lot.”

Sherlock grins, and John smiles back, just as bright, and something tight, and hot, and ugly lets go of Sherlock’s heart.  “Well,” he tries.  “I’m rather pleased that things happened as they did.”

John’s face falls a little.  “Are you?  You didn’t…  Christ!”  John lets out a nervous laugh, steps back a little, rakes a hand through his hair.  Sherlock watches as something he doesn’t like starts to creep in around the edges of John’s eyes, to push the unfettered joy out.  He reaches out, hooks a finger in John’s belt loop and pulls him back into the safety of the V of his legs.

John’s eyes widen a little, but he comes willingly.  He stays. 

“It was perfect.  You were perfect.  You are, John.”  Sherlock sees his words reach John, sees his eyes fill again, sees him swallow hard in an attempt to not succumb to this emotion, something he has always seen as weakness, but which Sherlock has always, only thought beautiful.

“But what about you?”  John finally manages.  “What do you want?  What do you need?”

“I need you to stay.”  Because he has to say it now.  If he waits it will be too late.  The importance of this moment, of what has just passed between them will start to fade, and all the realities of their situation will begin to vie for supremacy again.  It’s a brutal reminder, a horrible thing to wedge between them in the intimacy of this moment, but this means something to him, something huge, and Sherlock needs John to know.

John goes pale.  “Fuck…”  It’s barely a whisper, but there it is.  Reality, rearing it’s ugly head, and slapping him mercilessly in the face.  He steps away, turns his back, walks to the door of the flat, and stops.  Now he has to choose.

“I love you.  I love you, John.  And—that’s why.  That’s why I need you to stay this time, because I’m better with you here, and there’s nothing when you’re not.”

John is still, quiet, speechless it seems, but Sherlock won’t beg.  He’s put it all out on the table, given it all, and now the choice is John’s.  Sherlock had expected this, the hesitance, the…

“Yes.”

Sherlock blinks.  “What?”

John turns.  “Yes, I’m staying.  Of course I’m staying.  Christ Sherlock, did you really think that I could—that we could do this, that you could say that, and I would…?”  And then John is there again, pulling him close, kissing him.  Kissing, and kissing, and kissing him, until Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think except to wonder if he’s dead, or dying, and even then it doesn’t matter, because it’s in John’s arms, with John’s lips on his, and John is staying.

They will be alright.


End file.
